The Prodigal Son
by RobertDowneyJrLove
Summary: A one-off to 'May, 2014' from my story, 'A Year of Friendship' in which Winston and Chance talk after Chance comes home.


"Well, you finally returned."

Winston's skepticism is clear - and not completely unfounded, given it is Christopher Chance. If there was one thing the ex-cop had learned over the year, it was to maintain a healthy level of doubt where his colleague is concerned. Surprises abound with the ex-assassin turned vigilante and being unprepared for whatever he decided to throw your way left you looking like an ameteur, something he had fallen victim to many times in the past. To his utter shock, his doubts about the return of the "prodigal son" (he uses this term very loosely), are not returned with biting sacasm, but instead with a humble acknowledgement of wrong-doing.

"Look, I'm sorry I left." his eyes shift sideways, looking at the elevator as if it can provide him with the answers he needs, before his eyes once again find Winston's. "I had to, Winston."

"I know." Winston nods. And it is true, he does know, but it is so very rare to see Chance squirm for any reason and he'd like to enjoy the moment. "I wasn't expecting you back for another four or five months. After that, I figure Ilsa could hunt you down and drag your scruffy ass back."

"One time!"

His splutter is enough to break the ice. Like the old friends they were, they seem to pick up where they left off, sharing a quiet laugh and agreeing to reconvene back in the conference room after Chance has, had the opportunity to shower and change his clothes. Winston waits patiently in the conference room while his friend scrubs away the grime of the last three weeks, although he suspects it's going to take a lot more than a bar of soap to scrub away the mental grime, he's sure has accumulated from Chance's encounter with the Old Man - assuming he found him.

"It's quiet around here, where is everybody?" it's when he makes his casual entrance into the conference room that Winston sees how much the last few weeks have aged him. He's tired and gaunt in a way that suggests he isn't eating properly, or at all, if he dared to stress his body that much. While it isn't in his nature to notice the way clothes fit, he can't help but note that Chance's shirts are looser and his jeans baggier.

The last three weeks hadn't been kind to him.

"I don't know where Guerrero is. He disappeared not long after you did." he makes a vague motion with his hand, as if to indicate distance. It's with a roll of his eyes that he mentions the whereabouts of their youngest colleague. "I think Ames is in Vegas. Last time I heard from her, I think I heard slot machines in the background."

"I'll call her." Chance laughs, collapsing in one of the chairs next to his friend. "Let her have a few more hours of fun before I make her haul her ass back to work."

"Chance - "

"Winston, don't say it." Chance drawls warningly. "Just don't."

"I'm looking at you right now and I'd say you haven't been eating properly." Winston counters, his voice low and dangerous, daring his colleague to defy him. "If at all. You can't just come back and expect to go back to work."

"Not eating is nothing new for me."

He isn't quite sure what he was expecting, but he knows Chance's mumbled confession isn't it. And, the fact that he knows Chance isn't lying certainly isn't helping matters. He's heard some of the lighter tales of what happened during Chance's time with the Old Man, but before that, he doesn't know. He could probably use old police force resources to dig up what little there is left of him in the system, but it had never been crucial that he do so, so he had chosen to leave Chance's past in the past.

"Chance."

"I was on the streets before the Old Man picked me up." Chance shrugs it off nonchalantly, looking down at the conference table. "I was hungry a lot. It wasn't something I could help, so I adapted. I learned to live with being hungry. It's what made me a good assassin. I could adapt, I could take on new identities, learn to live in situations that would kill most people."

"Did you find him?" it's easier to change the subject than to dwell on Chance's revelation about his less than stellar childhod.

"Yeah." Chance nods, "he's in a bungalow in the middle of the desert."

"Not exactly where I pictured him." Winston laughs outright - better to laugh, than to say nothing and potentially make things awkward. "But, you didn't?"

It's more of what Chance doesn't say that tells the story. He doesn't pretend to lie and brag that he had killed him, that he had gotten rid of the Old Man once and for all. He doesn't even move his head to confirm or deny Winston's assumption that he hadn't killed the Old Man. He knows the truth and there's no point in hiding it from Winston. "I couldn't."

"Ah." Winston nods understandingly.

"He was right there in front of me, Winston. I could have shot him but I couldn't make myself pull the trigger." Chance confesses softly, "I know he deserves it and probably a lot worse, but not from me. It would have made things different. I would have been that guy again."

"That guy is dead." Winston shakes his head. "Killing the person who created him won't bring him back."

"In a way, it would have. Killing him would make me exactly what he wanted. A killing machine. No morals, no empathy." this is more than he's ever admitted to, at least as far as his feelings were concerned but Winston deserves to know why the Old Man could pose a potential threat to them in the future, as frustrating as it may be. "Leaving him alive is just as bad as killing him, but I'd rather know he's out there.."

"Than live with killing him, yeah, I get it." he's not pretending, either. He'd be lying if he said that as a cop, there weren't times when he felt more like killing some of the horrid monsters he captured, than giving them metal bracelets and tossing them in a cell, just to get lost in the tangled tentacles of a corrupt justice system. But, he couldn't. He knew he wouldn't have been able to live with himself and while it had been very tempting to think about, in the end his moral compass had never let him stray from what was right. "I'm going to go make some calls, maybe order some late breakfast, any preferences?"

"Nah." Chance shakes his head.

Wait.

There is something on Chance's neck and if he isn't mistaken, it is a bite mark. _Oh. _Well, not only did it explain Ilsa's tardiness (the woman was nothing if not punctual), but it also explained Chance's behavior. The upward swing of his mood toward something that could be mistaken as cheerful and the lack of guilt he usually had weighing on him where she was concerned. Not that Winston cared. Hell, he thinks he should be more shocked but nothing surprises him out of those two, anymore. That said, he was going to have a little fun with this.

"Well, welcome back." Winston stands up from his chair and starts out of the room, tossing his comment over his shoulder like a chef throwing salt for good luck. "Ilsa must have really liked having you home. You should put something on that bite."

Chance's curse reverberates through the warehouse.

* * *

**Wait, what? I wrote something that didn't involve Chance and Ilsa kissing?! Wow. Even I didn't think I could pull this off and I'm still not sure I managed it, but hey. It's not up to me, now is it? Nope. That is up to you, my darling readers. Enjoy and indulge my muse its twisted fantasy that has it convinced that I will write more like this. (Maybe not twisted, but a little far off at any rate.) Leave me some love, Dolls!**

**Love ya, **

**RobertDowneyJrLove **


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